


The kind of human wreckage that you love

by proprioception



Category: Birds of Prey (And the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn) (2020)
Genre: Asexuality Spectrum, Blow Jobs, Coming In Pants, Coming Untouched, Dom/sub, Drug Use, Face-Fucking, Frottage, Knifeplay, M/M, Masturbation, Non-Penetrative Sex, Self-Harm, Sex-Repulsed Character, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:40:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23693293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/proprioception/pseuds/proprioception
Summary: Victor doesn’t know whether to blame his relentless arousal on the high of violence or Roman’s undivided attention. The two are steadily merging in his mind, and his reaction to each is taking on the characteristics of the other: his claustrophobically noisy head goes quiet whenever Roman smiles at him, and he almost always has a hard-on by the time he’s covered in blood.
Relationships: Roman Sionis/Victor Zsasz
Comments: 16
Kudos: 178





	The kind of human wreckage that you love

**Author's Note:**

> Title from an MCR song, sorryyyyyy

The first time he meets Roman Sionis, Victor is in a bar bathroom and he’s done so much coke that he’s shaking too badly to tally up the last six hours’ worth of bodies. He just barely got out of this one alive, and he has no plans to report back to his boss as the sole survivor. Let him think Victor was part of the collateral damage until he’s found a new boss to cover his ass. At least he racked up some scars.

The first thing Roman does is invade his personal space. He has to step over an outflung arm and accompanying blood puddle to do it. He leans over Victor’s shoulder and peers at the several false starts on the inside of his left bicep, clearly the work of the serrated blade in his right hand. “What are you trying to accomplish here?” he asks.

Victor leans away and frowns at him, baffled and annoyed to see anyone alive. “Counting,” he growls.

Roman straightens abruptly. “ _Counting_?” he repeats, delighted. Victor watches his wide gray eyes travel down his bared forearm and flick up to his scarred neck. 

“Who are you?” Victor asks suspiciously. 

Roman grins. “Would you like a job?”

* * *

Victor hates wearing two shirts when one would suffice. Roman’s gotten it into his head that his henchman’s wardrobe reflects badly on him (“You look like you live in your mother’s basement. That’s not my _brand_.”), so he’s bought Victor lots of very nice, even comfortable clothes that Victor nonetheless hates, probably because they fit. This brought a much lamented end to his life of oversized T-shirts and jeans. The sequel revelation was that even his inner layers are subject Roman’s scrutiny, and _apparently_ everyone can tell and cares that you wear an undershirt. (Victor doesn’t believe this, but he gets paid to pretend he does, so he shrugs and finds that a rotation of wifebeaters has magically appeared in his new wardrobe.)

So when Victor rips off his button-up after a bit of arson, it’s mostly spite, but he knew exactly how the extra visible scarring would affect his new boss. He’s high on victory and molly, and Roman’s been in a good mood all evening, and he’s sweating through his shirt anyway, so he just goes for it.

Roman watches the savaged buttons scatter with dismay, but he’s easily distracted. He’s a little drunk, and staggers when he steps closer. He drags a finger down Victor’s scarred chest, tugging at the neck of the wifebeater to expose a particularly gnarly scar. Victor tries and fails not to shiver.

“Do you remember who… this was?” Roman’s wandering finger slides to a halt over a curved scar across his sternum.

Victor grins with all his teeth. “Nope.” He looks down at himself, thinks, _What the hell_ , and pushes the hem of his shirt up past his navel. He points at a nondescript white line. “This was the old DA. The one before the one the Joker killed a few years back.”

Roman crouches and leans in to inspect the scar, as if it looks any different than the others. Victor’s mouth goes dry at the sight of Roman Sionis on his knees, right here in front of him. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to will down an erection. 

“Where is the first one?” Roman asks, looking up at him with his artfully smudgy eyeliner. God, he’s pretty.

Victor looks down at him a beat too long before tracing a barely visible white line across his left forearm. “My first ex,” he says hoarsely, answering the unspoken next question.

Roman’s grin is conspiratorial. It looks flirtatious, too, but he always looks at Victor that way. “How many exes do you have?”

“Four.”

“How many of them have marks on you?”

Victor has given up on fending off his boner. “Four.”

“Noted,” Roman says, smirking ominously.

* * *

Victor loves to watch Roman piss people off. He likes to hang around the bar or the back door and watch Roman stalk through the club, flinging drinks and insults left and right like it’s Christmas. When the victims of these rampages display anything less than simpering acquiescence, Victor likes to follow them out the door to rough them up or scare them. He likes the invincibility of being Roman’s pet, and he likes bloodying his knuckles and knives on rich assholes. Best of all, he likes the proud, possessive looks he gets from Roman when he does it.

Tonight there is a slight, haughty man with platinum hair who piqued Victor’s interest by sneering at Roman while his back was turned. Victor keeps an eye on him, waiting for him to leave so he can fling threatening, lascivious comments after him, since he doesn’t look like he would survive even a recreational beating. Unfortunately, the man lingers a while and doesn’t do much more than sneer. Victor, not a very patient man to begin with, is so bored that he perks up when he sees the man slip something into a drink. Victor lights up with fury and delight when he gifts the drink to Roman.

There isn’t the slightest threat to Roman’s person—it’s something with Fireball in it, which is the only thing that Victor will drink and the only thing Roman won’t—but Victor tucks his nose behind Roman’s ear and tattles anyway, because it’s his job and he loves it, and Roman flies into a rage.

It’s a full ten on the Richter scale, but it doesn’t look like one at first. They never do. Victor watches with pure glee as Roman saunters boisterously over to the bar where the man sits, the sloshing of his whiskey the only sign that he’s any more homicidal than usual. Roman’s manic grin is cheerful enough to put him somewhat at ease, and they make small talk for a few minutes.

Victor can’t hear the words from across the loud bar, but he can see by the look on the blond’s face that Roman interrupts him mid-sentence. The man’s mouth remains open for a few seconds while Roman continues to talk, then waves at the unattended glass near Victor. The man’s gaze latches onto Victor. The smile leaves his eyes but remains pasted onto his pale face.

Victor grins nastily. He leaves his seat and ambles over to them, carrying the drink. The man’s eyes flick frantically back and forth between the two of them before deciding Roman is the greatest threat.

“Why don’t you try it?” Roman suggests. “Let’s make sure it’s safe for Victor. ‘Kay?”

The man opens his mouth to plead, but glances at Victor and shuts it. He picks up the glass with a shaking hand and holds it to his mouth. He freezes there for too long, and Roman smashes the glass into his face.

“Drink it!” he roars.

God, this is going even better than Victor had hoped.

The man drops the glass in surprise, and holds his bleeding mouth and nose as he bursts into terrified sobs.

Victor’s not sure when exactly the bar went silent.

Roman rolls his eyes, abruptly bored. “Victor, do relieve this man of that unfortunate face.”

The man flinches back in fear, and Victor laughs as he sends him sprawling backwards onto the floor with a kick to the chest. 

Victor doesn’t know whether to blame his relentless arousal on the high of violence or Roman’s undivided attention. The two are steadily merging in his mind, and his reaction to each is taking on the characteristics of the other: his claustrophobically noisy head goes quiet whenever Roman smiles at him, and he almost always has a hard-on by the time he’s covered in blood.

He kneels over the man and flicks open his paring knife. He’s mildly worried the bridge piercing will give him some trouble, but it doesn’t, and he gets a clean face, despite the split lip and possibly broken nose.

Roman brags about Victor all night to anyone who will listen, which is anyone who wants to live, which is everyone. He’s still covered in blood, and no one will meet his eyes, but nobody says a word about his pink teeth, his ruined expensive shirt, or the red footprints he leaves on the tile.

When Victor finally helps a very tipsy Roman upstairs, he finds that his things have already been ferried and haphazardly unloaded into the living room. Victor thinks numbly of the dildo he had suctioned to his shower wall. He doesn’t see it in the one half-open suitcase vomiting its contents onto the shiny hardwood, so there’s that.

“Oh, I forgot!” Roman exclaims. He takes Victor by the shoulders and squeezes companionably. “Victor,” he says, theatrically tearful. “You truly are family to me now.”

Victor laughs, his automatic reaction to nerves. “Just because I killed someone in your club? That’s real nice, boss.”

Roman gives him a wounded look and takes his face in his hands. Victor stops breathing. “You saved my life, Victor.”

He thinks for a long, spinning moment that Roman’s going to kiss him. But he lets go of Victor’s face and throws an arm over his shoulder instead. “I’ve given you the room next to mine,” he announces. “I need you by my side permanently.”

Victor gapes at him. “The room… next to yours.”

“Let me know if it’s too small,” Roman says. “It’s much smaller than mine, obviously. I think it used to be servants’ quarters or something.” He waves dismissively. “But you, Victor, you’re my equal.”

* * *

Victor doesn’t know how to cohabitate with someone he’s not fucking. The first few nights, he fully dresses every time he leaves his room, whether it’s to walk down the street to Taco Bell or get a beer out of the fridge downstairs. He locks his door every time he jerks off or showers. He smokes hanging half out of the window. He feels like he’s moved back in with his parents, or like he’s haunting the place. Or being haunted.

He feels very silly and very relieved the first time he walks out of his room with shoes on and everything to find Roman sitting on the kitchen counter in a barely-fastened silk robe and matching fuzzy slippers. Victor tries very hard not to fixate on the abundance of chest and stomach and happy trail that he’s never seen. 

“Victor!” Roman crows, like it’s a pleasant surprise to see him in his own house. “I can’t sleep.” He offers Victor a smoking joint, held delicately between his neatly manicured fingers.

Victor raises his eyebrows. Roman never shares anything that goes near his mouth. But he takes it, and Jesus, he can tell immediately it’s the most expensive weed he’s ever smoked. His eyes flutter shut as the smoke streams from his nose, and Roman chuckles.

“Isn’t that delightful? French _Macaron_ , it’s called.” He attempts what Victor assumes is the native French pronunciation, the guttural R sputtering in his throat. He takes it back from Victor and takes a blissful hit off it. Victor watches a ribbon of smoke curl up from his mouth into his nose in a beautiful French inhale. Victor laughs hoarsely. Roman winks, tapping the ash into an ornate ceramic tray.

They pass the joint back and forth until it’s scorching their fingers. Roman leans in close as Victor’s taking a last cautious pull, and Victor’s brain shorts out. He only just manages not to drop the joint as Roman lights a fresh one off the roach. Roman’s eyes are glittering with mischief as he leans back, spewing a graceful cloud of smoke into his face. Victor grins, wide and lazy. He could get used to this.

* * *

Victor does miss getting his full night’s sleep of four hours. Roman frequently drags him out of bed in the middle of the night, or, worse, early in the morning, for various illegitimate reasons, but the purpose is violence often enough that Victor doesn’t mind. He doesn’t worry about decency in the middle of the night anymore, though he does still lock his door when his dick is out.

Even then, it’s only a matter of time before the perpetually ticking bomb of Roman Sionis’s whim goes off when Victor is indisposed (read: squirming on his own fingers). 

Roman tries the door before he knocks. He’s not a very good roommate.

“Uh—” Victor stops talking when his voice comes out sounding like porn, which thank fuck he hadn’t been watching on full volume. He smashes the spacebar and swears when it opens a noisy spam pop-up instead of pausing the video. He swallows with difficulty. “One minute,” he tries again. His voice is still rough, but theoretically he could have been asleep. 

Roman sighs loudly on the other side of the door, and Victor swears under his breath. He slams his laptop shut and rolls out of bed. He stands there for a second, rubbing his eyes, and waits to see if there’s any way his boner is going away soon. 

It’s not. And Roman isn’t either, if his restless chattering is anything to go by. “Hurry up,” he calls with another knock that sounds like a kick. 

Victor grumbles his way to the closet and pulls some pants on. Roman is especially excited about wherever he’s about to drag them, and knocks several more times while Victor is trying to stuff his boner into his pants, so Victor just wrenches the door open with a scowl before he bothers with a shirt. 

Roman goes silent immediately. His eyes greedily eat Victor up head to toe and back. “Good evening,” he says in a tone that would be described as cheeky on anyone else.

Victor is so irritable about being interrupted that not even Roman’s ambiguous flirting can distract him. He turns and goes back to his closet, but Roman gasps so loudly and with such distress that he freezes and whirls around.

“What?” Victor demands, eyes darting to each window and then the door behind Roman. 

Roman sweeps up to him and spins him around. Victor hunches his shoulders a little defensively at the sudden contact. Roman’s only touching him with his gloves, but it’s Victor’s bare skin. He feels goosebumps rise on the back of his neck. 

“You’re so smooth,” Roman marvels. 

Victor relaxes, then laughs. “I can’t reach back there,” he points out. 

Roman’s finger slides down the center of his back, catching on every vertebra. Victor shivers as the sensation dampens when he passes over scar tissue where sensation hasn’t quite returned. “I can,” Roman murmurs, and it’s the sweet, velvety tone that he uses whenever he’s about to kill someone who thinks they’re safe.

It should scare Victor, but it doesn’t. Arousal flushes his entire body, and he tips his head slightly to the side with his mouth open, exposing his neck. He wants Roman to touch him there, to slice him open along one of the most sensitive and delicate parts of his body. 

Roman’s hands explore Victor’s back lightly, almost tenderly. “I can,” he repeats. 

* * *

Roman’s voice in Victor’s ear is even more seductive than usual: “Kill him.” Victor doesn’t need to be told twice, but then Roman’s breath is on his opposite ear: “He’s my ex.” His voice is dancing with humor and Victor shivers when Roman punctuates the secret with a light touch at his hip.

Victor is frozen for a very long moment, then grins over his shoulder at Roman. “For me?” he asks, a disbelieving hand to his chest. 

Roman’s eyes crinkle fondly at him. “No, silly, for me,” he says, and squeezes his shoulder before completing his slow circle around Victor and the man whimpering on his knees before him. 

Victor’s stomach flutters, which is utterly ridiculous, but nobody’s ever asked him to kill someone like this before. It feels like a gift and a proposition all at once. It’s not business, it’s not to save face—it’s intimate. Roman is _sharing_.

Victor pays more attention to the victim than he’d admit. He can’t suppress his curiosity about Roman’s taste in men, and this one is unremarkable, to Victor’s relief. He looks more refined than Victor, but that’s not hard. His clothes look expensive under the blood and dirt. He’s pretty, Victor guesses, though not his type. But in the end, he goes crying and screaming, and probably has no stomach for violence.

Victor defaces him meticulously, careful to get a clean cut with no false starts or fuck-ups. Luckily he’s not on anything much at the moment, or it could have been difficult. He is deliberately slow, both for this reason and to draw it out as long as possible. The man goes limp with blood loss before Victor’s done with him.

Roman praises him throughout, things like, “So clean and neat,” and, “I knew you’d do a good job with him.” Victor only pays the steady stream of compliments minimal attention, or he wouldn’t be able to focus, but he fucking loves it.

When the man’s face finally comes away from his head, Victor drapes it carefully over his hand and presents it to Roman, smirking proudly.

Roman withdraws from it, his nose wrinkling. “Ugh, disgusting,” he says with a grin. “He always was a pig.” He waves his hand at a jar full of yellowish liquid that Victor hadn’t been sure wasn’t piss until now. “Jar it. I’m starting a new tradition! And for god’s sake, wash your hands.”

Victor laughs and does as he’s told. As soon as his hands are clean, Roman’s all over him, unbuttoning his shirt haphazardly and sliding his hands up the back of it like he can’t even wait until he’s done. Victor grunts in surprise. If he hadn’t already been hard, he sure is now. 

“I was going to wait until we got back home, but—” Roman pushes Victor’s shirt over his shoulders and evidently forgets to finish the sentence. “Give me your knife.” His voice is rough and Victor wants to fall to his knees and beg for whatever Roman will give him, but he offers him the bloody knife instead.

“Eww!” Roman exclaims, warding it off with upthrown hands. “Clean it off, first! I’m sure he has any number of communicable diseases.”

Victor laughs. He wipes the knife off on his undershirt, but Roman gives him an unimpressed eyebrow. Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Victor fishes a clean knife, a mostly decorative butterfly, out of his belt. He flips it open ostentatiously and hands it to Roman by the handle.

Roman spins him around, tugs at the hem of his undershirt, and cuts it open up the middle.

Victor’s stomach drops. Roman hadn’t been kidding the other night. He draws a tentative, meandering line across Victor’s shoulders with his gloved finger. “Where should I put it?” he murmurs, and Victor knows better than to answer. He bites his lip and tries to convince himself not to adjust his dick.

Roman shoves at Victor’s shoulder and after a moment of confusion, snaps, “Bend over the table.”

A whimper comes out of Victor’s mouth involuntarily, and his face reddens, but Roman only chuckles and squeezes his shoulder. “I’ll take care of you, darling,” he murmurs in his ear. “Don’t you worry.”

Victor braces his elbows against the table and tries to breathe evenly. He’s so fucking turned on, psychologically and physiologcally, and he isn’t confident he won’t do something embarrassing.

Roman rounds the table and caresses the back of Victor’s head, running his gloved hand over the short blond hair. His hands move to Victor’s shoulders and run across his back, and Victor feels _scrutinized_. The wait is killing him. He wants to tell Roman to get on with it but at the same time never wants his scorching gaze anywhere else.

Without warning, Roman slices into his left shoulder, and the knife is so sharp that it’s a split second before Victor even feels the pain. It’s not the knife he usually uses to tally up. When the sharp, cold sensation does land, Victor can tell the cut is too deep, but when he opens his mouth to tell Roman, a broken moan comes out instead. The skin-crawling, almost-tickle under his skin, and the good old pain around, above, and below it—it all feels so fucking good, he can’t contain it. His entire body goes hot-cold and he comes in his pants, twitching and gasping.

“Victor!” Roman gasps, freezing mid-cut. “Tell me you did not just do what I think you did.”

Victor just groans, gripping the edge of the table with both hands. “I… can’t,” he manages.

Roman is silent for a terrifying moment, but he finishes the meticulous cut—Victor lets out another breathy noise—and then chuckles. “You’re even nastier than I had suspected,” he says in a gloating tone, smoothing his palm over the back of Victor’s head. “I love it.”

* * *

Roman doesn’t fire him, but he also doesn’t make any moves. Victor doesn’t know what to make of it; he’s made plenty of sexual missteps in his life, and they’ve always ended in either excommunication or consummation. Roman’s acting like nothing happened, and Victor can’t tell if it’s because he’s upset, or because he really wasn’t bothered by the incident. Either way, he can follow suit, and pretends he’s not constantly thinking about it.

Around Roman, that is. He jerks off excessively to the memory of Roman’s breath on his neck followed by the knife in his shoulder. The new cut in his shoulder takes forever to heal, partly because it needed stitches and got bandaids instead, and partly because he keeps digging his fingers into it when he comes.

Between routinely wallowing in graphic fantasies and constant mild anxiety about Roman being possibly angry with him, Victor is more and more distracted around Roman. Distracted _by_ him. The chasm between what he should feel and think and what’s actually monopolizing his every idle second is yawning wider, and he’s increasingly desperate to relieve the tension, preferably in a pleasurable way.

Roman notices. He notices whenever people are paying him less attention than usual, and unfortunately, Victor’s set the expectations very high. 

The third time Roman catches Victor’s attention drifting during dinner, he abruptly stops talking and frowns. He puts down his wine glass, pushes his chair back from the table, and says Victor’s name. He has to repeat it twice and snap before Victor comes back to himself. 

“What?” Victor asks, blinking. 

“I _said_ , get on your knees.” Roman’s gaze is not nice, but it has that undercurrent of humor that lines everything he does.

Victor falls hard on his knees in front of Roman, eyes fixed on him. He doesn’t even take a moment to make sure that’s the invitation it sounds like. He doesn’t even consider the possibility that he’s misunderstood until Roman smirks, letting him know that he hasn’t.

“You know, it was you who...”—Roman casts about for the word with a dismissive flick of his wrist—“ _inspired_ me to kill my exes.” His flippant tone clashes with his intense, almost grave, eye contact. Victor swallows audibly. “It’s such good closure! How didn’t I think of that?” Roman shakes his head, grinning, then neutralizes his expression again. He cups Victor’s face in his hand and affectionately scuffs at his cheek with his thumb. “So we’d better not start _carrying on_ ,” he says with a playful little shrug, “unless we can do it right. ‘Kay?”

“I can do it right,” Victor rasps. He can, and god, he will. He wants nothing more than to _carry on_ with Roman Sionis, even if the fallout is sure to be even worse than Ace Chemicals. He’ll cross that bridge when he has to. 

Roman grins down at him. “I hope so,” he says conversationally, “because you’ll be the one dying if you don’t.”

They stare each other down for a long time. Victor is pretty sure it’s a very real threat, but his brain and body react to it like dirty talk. He shivers violently. He just waits on his knees for Roman’s go-ahead, all puppy-dog eyes and what’s surely a painfully obvious erection.

“I think you can,” Roman finally agrees. He reaches down between them and unbuttons his pants. He’s wearing boxers patterned like public transit carpet, but they look like silk, so Victor assumes it’s expensive public transit carpet. He doesn’t wait for the underwear to come down. He can’t. He leans in and rubs his face against Roman’s silken bulge. His dick is hot and hard and _huge_ on his lips and Victor groans. 

Roman curls his hand around the back of Victor’s head and grinds against his face with a sigh. Victor loves it, slides his hands possessively up Roman’s thighs, and leans into it. 

“Mmm, good,” Roman says, “good boy.”

Victor growls, digs his fingers into Roman’s ass, and licks his underwear.

Roman makes a happily surprised half-moan and his dick pulses against Victor’s face. “Oh, that’s precious.” He scratches Victor under the chin, and Victor’s too caught up in it all even to be indignant. “ _Such_ a good boy for me, I think you deserve a treat,” Roman says with obnoxiously evident delight.

Victor whines his agreement, and tugs plaintively on his underwear with his teeth.

Roman grabs a handful of the back of Victor’s shirt and twists it around his wrist, pulling it tight around his neck. Victor moans around the minor constriction.

“Do as you’re told,” Roman snaps. “Which means _don’t_ do as you’re _not_ told.”

“Yes, boss,” Victor rasps.

“Now suck my fucking dick!” he says, punctuating the demand by releasing Victor’s shirt. 

Victor yanks Roman’s underwear down roughly. He doesn’t even notice the soft ticks of deforming elastic until Roman scolds him with a half-hearted swat to the shoulder. “Stop ruining my things!” he complains.

But Victor can’t focus on anything but Roman’s thick, uncut dick. He’s so hard, and his flushed, shiny cockhead peeks coyly out of the foreskin at him.

“Well?” Roman asks, pissy on principle for being made to wait for any amount of time for anything, but also undeniably smug.

Victor ignores him in favor of swallowing down his dick. Roman gasps and clutches ineffectually at his short hair. Victor’s throat spasms in weak protest—he’s out of practice sucking dick—but as soon as his air is cut off, his mind goes quiet like it only ever does when he has a knife in his hand. He stays there a few seconds, until his gag reflex remembers itself and he has to ease off. 

“Jesus Christ, Victor,” Roman pants, pushing his hand through his own hair.

Victor pulls back to suckle the head of his dick and looks up at Roman with heavy-lidded eyes. The view isn’t disappointing. He can’t see as much bare skin as he’d like, but the vee of Roman’s half-open shirt shows that the rosy flush on his cheeks and neck goes at least as far down as his sternum. His hair is mussed and his mouth is open in something like awe. At Victor. 

It’s too much, and Victor grinds the heel of his hand against his crotch for something resembling relief. 

Roman’s eyes narrow, and he kicks at Victor’s leg. “What did I just fucking tell you?” he demands. 

Victor gives his cock a few unhurried strokes as he pulls off to cough wetly. “Sorry, boss.” He’s not. 

“Oh, Victor, Christ, your hands—” Roman lets out a gleeful whine and shivers. “Do you have scars on your palms?” He looks down at Victor through his lashes, positively coquettish.

“Mmhmm,” Victor grunts as he licks precum from Roman’s cock. Fuck, he tastes good. 

“Jerk me off,” Roman orders breathlessly. “With those disgusting hands.”

Victor reluctantly lets Roman’s cock fall from his mouth and gives him a few long, languid strokes before tightening his fist and pumping his dick like he means it.

Roman’s head falls back with a loud, extravagant moan. Victor would scoff at how over the top it is if it didn’t scale perfectly with every other aspect of Roman’s excess.

Victor watches Roman’s face raptly, fascinated by the tics of pleasure. He can’t get enough of the way his eyelids half-shutter and his nostrils twitch and his eyes roll. Roman looks abruptly down at Victor and their eyes lock. Roman’s eyebrows are knitted and his mouth is open and Jesus Christ, he’s pretty. 

“Mouth open,” Roman orders softly, and Victor closes his eyes instinctively half a second before hot cum hits his cheeks and chin and tongue. Fuck, even his cum tastes good. Roman gives an even more pornographic moan and Victor echoes it deep in his throat as he coaxes more out of Roman with little kitten licks.

“Victor,” Roman gasps. “Jesus fuck, that’s good.”

Victor licks up the cum on his lips, everything he can reach, then wipes Roman’s dick across his face and licks it clean, like a cat’s paw.

Roman gasps at the rasp of stubble against his dick and gives a wobbly little giggle. “Disgusting.”

Victor drags Roman’s softening dick across his other cheek—Roman’s back arches and he moans loudly—and licks it clean before leaving him alone. “You like it,” Victor accuses, his voice absolutely shredded. 

“Of course I do!” Roman shrugs, pushing his hair back. He takes a deep breath and sighs it out, sated and languid, and pulls his pants back up. He leans over Victor and reaches for his remaining dinner.

“Boss,” Victor starts, petulant. 

Roman looks down at him, eyebrows slightly raised, then lower. “Right. Well then, get yourself off.”

Victor’s face goes hot. Is this some kind of one-sided booty call? He starts to scramble to his feet.

“No, stay there,” Roman says, and reaches over Victor to pluck a strawberry off his plate. “On your knees.” He bites delicately into it. “Get your cock out.”

The rest of Victor’s body goes hot, in a good way. He fumbles his pants open and squeezes his dick through his underwear. He groans.

“ _Out_ ,” Roman repeats. 

Victor obeys, pushing the waistband down under his balls with one hand as he starts stroking himself. His breathing is heavier than it has any reason to be. 

“Let me see,” Roman demands with his mouth full.

Victor whines, but lets his cock flop heavily back against his stomach. He’s not as long as Roman, and he doesn’t usually care about that kind of shit, but suddenly he’s terrified that Roman will be disappointed.

“Mmm, very nice,” Roman says approvingly, and heat lances through Victor’s gut. Roman’s eyes flick back up to his and Victor can’t look away. “Continue.”

Victor whimpers and wastes no time complying, jerking off furiously. He doesn’t break eye contact with Roman once, not even when he falls forward onto one hand and starts to fuck his fist. His head is spinning, clogged with arousal and shame and the fiery need to please Roman.

“Can I come?” Victor asks hoarsely, and Christ, he doesn’t even know where that came from. He doesn’t do this. Doesn’t get off on being humiliated or bossed around or watched with distant interest like feral dogs humping across the street.

But he gets off on it when it’s Roman.

“Don’t get cum on my floor,” Roman shrugs, grinning.

Victor growls in frustration and starts to get up, but Roman raises his eyebrows, his grin vanishing abruptly. 

Victor glares up at him for a long moment, then snatches the cloth napkin draped over Roman’s thigh. He tosses it on the floor in front of him, and Roman hasn’t even finished his indignant gasp before Victor’s coming all over it, growling his satisfaction.

“You fucking barbarian!” Roman shrills after a long, shocked second.

Victor looks up at him, a defiant grin slowly crawling across his face. He’s counting on the sight of Roman’s cum cooling on his face softening him up a little, but he’s not sure exactly how much.

Roman abruptly bursts into crows of laughter. “Resourceful,” he admits, cackling. “You resourceful little shit!”

Victor relaxes, laughing too. He knew he’d crossed a line, but he never knows which lines are punishable by death. Apparently not this one.

“Come here,” Roman says. Victor staggers to his feet, but when he leans in for—he doesn’t fucking know, a kiss?—Roman’s face scrunches up in disgust. “Eww! Wash your face!”

Victor glares at him and picks up the napkin. He wipes his face with a clean piece of it, and when he looks back at Roman, finds his disgust has multiplied.

“That’s so much worse,” Roman says gravely. “Go take a fucking shower!”

* * *

“Remind me never to offer him coke again,” Victor grumbles to Dinah as they watch Roman sprint into the club. It doesn’t open for a few hours, so Victor isn’t too worried Roman will get frisky and deprive him of fun with his impatience.

“I could have told you that,” Dinah says, unimpressed. 

“Fuck off,” Victor snaps. “I’m trying to be friendly.”

Dinah nods slowly. “Right.” 

“Whatever, you’re done until opening,” Victor says, dropping half a cigarette and grinding it out on the street. So much for unwinding before calming down his boss. He climbs the stairs without acknowledging Dinah again. He hates her. Roman spends entirely too much time looking at her like his new pet.

Victor is the _only_ pet, and he will make sure it stays that way.

He doesn’t see too much carnage in the living room, but then he hears a crash. He follows the sound of a tantrum down the hall. He’s relieved to see Roman is trashing his own room, but he’s screaming obscenities and it sounds like he’s ramming his entire body into the walls or onto the floor. Victor doesn’t even know what set him off. He’s so volatile sober that Victor should have known better than to effectively turn all the dials up to eleven. He winces at the sound of shattering glass. 

“Hey, boss,” Victor says softly, seeing how he responds to sweet-talking before he gets his fingers bitten off.

Roman doesn’t even seem to hear him.

Victor takes a few steps closer, hands out like he’s trying not to scare a rabid dog. “Roman,” he says, calm but insistent.

Roman rounds on him. “What?” he snarls.

Victor takes the opportunity to make his approach, circling him and settling his hands on Roman’s shoulders to try and anchor his attention. Roman tenses up even more and freezes. For a long second, Victor thinks drawing inescapable tactile attention to himself might have been a grave mistake. He holds his breath and gives Roman’s shoulders a squeeze.

This seems to do the trick; some of the tension slips off his shoulders like water. Victor can still feel him twitching, still has the same cold itch in his veins, but he can also feel Roman calming down. He has an idea, and says, cautiously, “How about you lie down?” Either Roman will know what he wants and cooperate, or he won’t. No awkward questions.

He can feel Roman winding up for a tirade and squeezes his shoulders hard. Roman gives a surprised grunt but subsides, relaxing after a second with a huff. He brushes debris (both the literal kind from his destructive tantrum and the usual mess) unceremoniously onto the floor and flings himself onto his bed, burying his face in his pillow. Cue Victor’s overeager dick.

Victor kicks his shoes off and climbs onto the bed, positively vibrating. Roman waits until Victor is already half astride him to twitch and demand, “What—?” but he falls abruptly silent as Victor’s weight settles across his lower back and he begins to massage Roman’s shoulders.

Roman goes boneless instantly with a positively pornographic noise. “Oh my _god_ , Victor,” he groans into the pillow. Something about the timbre of his voice filtered through goose down just cranks arousal throughout Victor’s body. He shifts his weight to avoid grinding his increasingly problematic erection directly into Roman’s back.

“That feel good, boss?” Victor asks, and he really doesn’t mean for it to sound as lascivious as it does, but his voice is mangled with desire. He can practically hear himself drooling.

Roman lets out a laugh, low and smug. “Enjoying yourself?” he asks. “I know I am.”

“Of course, boss,” Victor says evasively, suddenly nervous. “You’re happy, I’m happy.”

Roman tries to peer over his shoulder at him. “That’s very _professional_ of you, Mr. Zsasz,” he says, a smirk in his voice.

“That’s me,” Victor manages, irony his last attempt at saving face. 

“Indeed,” Roman says. “Well, then you’ll humor me,” he says. He waits a long second, letting Victor sweat. “Lower.”

It’s a totally reasonable, normal request. Victor releases Roman’s shoulders and starts massaging down his back. There’s more muscle to him than Victor expected: he’s never seen Roman lift a finger he didn’t need to. Maybe it’s the stress. 

Roman stretches like a cat and sighs loudly as Victor works his knuckles down Roman’s back on either side of his spine. Victor grins with teeth and distributes his attention evenly over Roman’s back. He scoots back as he works lower and lower until he’s kneading at the knots right above Roman’s waistband. 

“Lower,” comes Roman’s muffled voice, commanding but hoarse. 

Victor tries not to groan. He shifts his weight back to Roman’s thighs and gropes his ass. He hopes it’s firm and deliberate enough for Roman to feel like his directions are being followed. 

“Perfect,” Roman moans. 

Victor wants to lie down and press his entire body against Roman’s, wants Roman to feel the bulge of his hard cock against his ass and his hot breath on his neck. 

“Kneel,” Roman says, shocking Victor out of his fantasy within a fantasy. 

Victor shifts his weight up onto his knees and Roman rolls over. His cheeks are flushed and his shirt has ridden up past his navel, showing a strip of lightly furred belly that Victor desperately wants to bite. 

“Continue,” Roman says, his voice soft and his eyes daring.

Victor’s self-control is gone in an instant. Fortunately, so are his doubts about Roman’s intentions. He rips Roman’s belt out of the loops and tosses it aside with a loud clunk. He opens Roman’s pants and shoves them down with his underwear only enough to be out of the way. Victor strokes his cock once and Roman moans as he bucks his hips up into his grip.

Fuck, Victor needs to feel Roman, really feel him, wants their cocks slipping and pulsing against each other in his fist.

Roman looks sharply down at him when Victor lets go of his dick. “What are you doing?” he demands.

Victor freezes, a hand on his zipper. “Uh,” he says. When Roman’s expression doesn’t soften, he raises his hands in surrender. “Nothing, boss.”

“That’s right, _nothing_ ,” Roman sniffs. “Suck me off.”

Victor obeys hastily, leaning down and giving Roman’s belly a sharp bite before taking his cock into his mouth. Roman lets out a little yelp that immediately slides into a moan as Victor starts bobbing his head. 

Victor melts into the bed between Roman’s legs. He never wants to be anywhere but here, his mouth stuffed full of cock and his fingers digging into Roman’s soft, smooth thighs, grinding lazily against the mattress.

Neither of them notices the faint sound of the door opening or the footsteps after that. Roman’s making too much noise, and Victor’s too drunk on knowing he’s the reason for it. 

“Oh my god, Jesus!” Dinah exclaims. “Fuck, sorry!” Victor chokes and spits out Roman’s dick to glare at her. She’s already gone, footsteps frantically backtracking as she grumbles about closing the goddamn door.

“Fuck off!” Roman and Victor shout after her together.

* * *

“Stop moving around! Honestly, Victor, you should know better than anyone how much I hate a jagged mark.”

Roman’s weight draped over Victor’s back shifts, and Victor takes a deep breath with effort. He’s trying not to move, he is, but Roman’s hard and his dick is pressed up against him and Victor wants almost nothing more than to rub his ass all over it.

Almost. He wants to be good, first and foremost, because then Roman might let him. Or better yet, he might let Victor suck him off. 

“Be still,” Roman hisses, “and I’ll reward you.”

Victor tries to muffle his moan in the pillow.

Roman chuckles. “Be a good boy for me, hmm?” he croons. 

Victor stops breathing, and finally he’s still enough for Roman. The sharp, serrated blade of his knife bites into the back of his neck, perpendicular to his spine, and he groans loudly. 

“Good boy,” Roman murmurs, and presses a noisy kiss to the new wound. He licks up the fresh blood and savors the taste with his own suggestive noise.

“What about the second one?” Victor asks innocently. He knows Roman hasn’t forgotten, but he likes it when Victor asks for things.

“Oh, yes! Hmmm, where shall we put this one?”

Victor stays perfectly still, his head buzzing with the praise and body buzzing with the pain. He whines when most of the wonderful full-body pressure lifts off of him, but Roman swats him on the shoulder. “Be quiet. Don’t rush me.”

The tip of the knife rasps against his lower back and Roman waits out Victor’s predictable shiver before adding a slice to the left side of his lower back.

Victor grabs handfuls of sheets to keep from moving or moaning. Roman’s gotten better at cutting deep enough to scar but not deep enough to require stitches, and this one was _perfect_. 

Roman’s hot mouth on the new cut startles a moan out of Victor. He swipes his tongue across it lightly, just tasting the blood. He grabs Victor’s wrists and pins them at his sides. “Let’s go to your bed,” Roman murmurs in his ear, his voice rough. “I can’t have blood on my sheets.”

“Blood,” Victor repeats dizzily. 

Roman chuckles. He lets go of Victor’s wrists and drags his palms down his back and over his ass. He slaps Victor’s ass once, playful, and stands up.

Victor needs a moment. He tries to steady his breathing, but he can feel his pulse pounding in his ears and his dick. 

“Victor!”

“I’m coming,” Victor growls, and drags himself out of bed. He checks the ivory sheets for blood and is relieved to see none. He kicks his pants off on the way to his room, leaving him in his underwear as he leans on the doorframe. 

Roman makes himself at home in Victor’s bed, propping himself up on the pillows in the very center. His snow white undershirt is unbuttoned and spotted with bright, fresh blood, and the effect is absolutely gorgeous. Victor clambers into bed and straddles Roman’s thighs without even asking. Victor leans in for a kiss and Roman meets him eagerly, only to immediately pull back. 

“Fuck, why the fuck am I—move, let’s switch,” he demands, and Victor chuckles as Roman shoves him off his lap and then shoves him back into the nest of pillows he’d made for himself.

Roman straddles him and shrugs out of his shirt. Victor bites his lip and whines when the sheets stick to the fresh slices on his back. Roman finally leans in to kiss him, and growls, “That’s better,” against his mouth. Victor moans in agreement as he just lets Roman have his way with him.

Roman doesn’t kiss like Victor expected. The attitude is right—demanding and entitled—but the technique is a surprise. Victor expects Roman’s tongue in his mouth immediately. He opens right up for it as soon as Roman slips him the slightest bit of tongue. But Roman doesn’t invade Victor’s mouth like he invades everything else. He bites Roman’s lip, to see if he can be provoked, but Roman just _purrs_ and kisses him harder, not deeper.

That’s not to say it’s tame. Roman bites Victor’s tongue and sucks on his lips and licks his neck when he gets distracted. And _fuck_ , does Victor love it when he gets distracted. The scarred skin of his neck is by turns numb and tender, and even a straightforward swipe of tongue sends shivers up and down Victor’s spine. Roman notices, and he doesn’t stop there. He scrapes his teeth along the scars, breathes on them, rubs his stubbled cheek against them. Victor is mewling, clinging to his waist for dear life, before Roman even does anything untoward.

Roman breaks the kiss and grinds tentatively down on him, eyes on Victor’s. Victor goes stiff, his abs and shoulders tightening, and his mouth opens a full second before the whimper comes out of his mouth. A predatory smile spreads across Roman’s face, and he does it again. 

“Fuck, Roman,” Victor pants. “God, please don’t stop.”

Roman grips the headboard for leverage and starts to practically ride him. Victor’s head thumps against the headboard. He’s so hard, and Roman’s hard, and he can only feel the vague shape of him through their remaining layers. It’s simultaneously maddening and erotic. The fabric of his underwear under Roman’s frantic grinding starts to chafe on his dick, and it feels amazing.

“Victor,” Roman groans, his breath hot on Victor’s ear. “You feel _perfect_.” Victor grinds back up against Roman, meeting and intensifying the drag of their cocks. They both moan, and Roman kisses him again. It feels so fucking good. Roman’s making these petulant whines that means he feels good, and Victor can’t handle the feedback loop of it. 

“Roman, fuck… I’m—fucking close,” he moans.

Roman grins and leans in close with a deadly grin. “Are you going to come in your pants for me?” He licks up the side of Victor’s neck, and worries at the scars there with his tongue. “You know how I hate messes, but… I’ll make an exception for this.” He bites Victor’s ear. “For you.”

Victor lets out a guttural sob and scratches his blunt nails down Roman’s back as he comes hot and wet in his underwear. Fuck, it’s so good. Victor remembers his dry humping days fondly, and smugly notes that it is just as good now as it was when he was fourteen. Such a pity that most adults seem to think they’ve outgrown it. 

Roman doesn’t stop grinding against him until he goes completely limp, panting loudly and twitching at the harsh stimulation.

“Fuck, Roman, oh my god,” Victor pants. “Shit.”

“Disgusting,” Roman says fondly, and kisses him. It’s sloppier this time, and noisier. Roman’s clearly worked up about it.

He abruptly breaks the kiss to glare down between them. Victor sees his cum soaking sloppily through his underwear, and looks up, grinning, when he sees a matching wet spot on the front of Roman’s very expensive pants. 

“Eww!” Roman exclaims. 

“You’ll just have to take them off,” Victor drawls. “What a shame.”

Roman’s face darkens. He wraps his hand around Victor’s throat and leans in close, squeezing hard enough for a shot of adrenaline to ice Victor’s stomach. “These are my things,” he snarls. “The only reason you can _touch_ them is because you are also my things.” He squeezes harder for just a second. “You still need my permission to destroy them.”

When Roman releases him with a shake, Victor sucks in a rattling breath and lets it right back out in a moan. “Yes, boss.”

Roman grins with all his teeth. His eyes crinkle. “Good boy.” He levers himself up onto his knees by the headboard, flaunting his obscenely obvious hard-on as he looks tenderly down at Victor through his eyelashes. “Now take them off.”

Victor grins. He wastes no time wrenching down Roman’s pants. His cock is thick and hard and Victor puts his mouth on it immediately. He tastes a little like cum and a little like precum, and the combination is delightful. 

Victor whines in protest when Roman shoves his head against the headboard, away from his dick. He shuts right up when Roman feeds his cock back into his mouth and just doesn’t stop until he’s buried all the way down Victor’s throat. Victor’s eyes roll back in pleasure and he can’t make a sound. 

Roman fucks his face hard, and Victor just goes ragdoll limp and lets him, moaning whenever there’s room for it in his throat. He tries to relax his throat, but still gags and chokes, and he loves it. Roman loves the sounds, or at least that’s why Victor assumes there’s a noticeable increase in tempo as soon as he starts making them. After a minute or two, he’s feeling lightheaded and dizzy, and his lungs are a dull ache in his chest.

“So good for me, Victor,” Roman purrs, his voice hoarse. Victor grabs Roman’s ass and tries to take him deeper and Roman just throws back his head and moans.

“Oh, Victor, I’m so close,” he whines, fucking Victor’s throat even faster with absolutely no consideration. It’s the way facefucking ought to be done, and Victor loves it so much he’s starting to get hard again. 

Roman whines and sobs his way to climax, and thrusts more shallowly to come in Victor’s mouth. Victor moans at Roman’s taste and flutters his tongue against the underside of his cockhead until Roman screams. He doesn’t stop until Roman collapses back onto his lap. 

“Oh my god, Victor,” he pants, pushing his hair back from his face. “Fuck, that was fucking excellent.”

Victor hums agreement and cranes up to kiss him, but Roman rears back with narrowed eyes. “Do you taste like cum?” he asks suspiciously. 

“Uh, yeah,” Victor croaks, chuckling.

“Fine,” Roman sighs loudly, and leans in gingerly.

Victor chuckles and yanks his face down to his, ignoring his reticence. He licks into Roman’s mouth and bites his lips, and after a moment Roman relaxes into it with a soft noise of pleasure. He kisses Victor back like he means it, and only briefly grimaces at the taste of his own cum.

**Author's Note:**

> Love, a very horny asexual lololol


End file.
